


More Than Words

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:20:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on a prompt: Meet cute: "I heard you talking/singing to yourself through the air vent and I want to keep listening but I need to pull myself away so I can find you somewhere in this building"</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Words

 

Emma Swan was done with men. Like, really done. After yet another break-up with yet another asshole, followed by yet another move, she asked herself when she would finally learn. When she'd finally understand that she just wasn't relationship material.

 

The new apartment she'd hastily picked and moved into with her few miserable belongings was okay. Nothing more, nothing less. So, she was alone again, and that was fine. She got up in the morning, she went to work, she came home, she ate, drank a glass of wine and went to sleep. A nice routine. Soothing. Numb. She didn't miss anything, or anyone. She never had.

 

Everything was fine, except for the heating that didn't work all too well in the old apartment building; which wasn't so great during a winter in New York, but as she knew this was only another temporary stay in her restless life, Emma didn't let herself to get bothered by it. She simply dealt with it by taking her wine and her emptiness to the old bathtub where she spent most evenings.

 

The first time she heard the voice was about two weeks after she'd moved in. She'd just immersed with a sigh into the hot bubble bath, when she heard a strange, ghostly sound that made her sit bolt upright, because at first she thought someone was trying to break into her apartment. But then she recognized what it was: guitar strings were being plucked, and weird echo effect came from the building's ancient air vent system. Obviously, in one of the apartments above hers – or maybe below – someone's radio was playing loud enough to disturb her miserable evening entertainment.

 

“Really?” she huffed and took a large sip from her wine glass, and – almost as if it was magic – the sounds stopped. And started again. Emma frowned, and at some point she realized that this wasn't a radio playing, but it was actually someone tuning a guitar. She rolled her eyes. _Even worse._ Now she'd have to listen to finger exercises before her bedtime? _Great._ She was going to need more wine, probably. After a few minutes, however, a few chords were played that sounded surprisingly harmonious. There was something vaguely familiar about those tunes, and she pricked her ears up curiously.

 

And then, suddenly, someone started to sing.

 

“ _I can tell by your eyes that you've probably been cryin' forever_

_And the stars in the sky don't mean nothin' to you, they're a mirror.”_

 

The voice wasn't really deep nor loud; it was very soft and melodious and husky and very much in tune with the guitar.

 

“ _I don't wanna talk about it, how you broke my heart_

_If I stay here just a little bit longer_

_If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?”_

 

“Really?” she sighed to herself. Of all the songs that guy had to pick a nasty little heart breaker? Now, that was annoying. On the other hand, the voice wasn't that unpleasant, and she could enjoy a nice serenade, right? She hadn't had her heart broken, after all. At least not this time.

 

“ _If I stand all alone, will the shadows hide the colors of my heart_

_Blue for the tears, black for the night's fears_

_The stars in the sky don't mean nothin' to you, they're a mirror.”_

 

Fine, fine. It's really fine. Come on, bring it. Nothing but cheesy shit anyway.

 

“ _I don't want to talk about it, how you broke my heart_

_If I stay here just a little bit longer_

_If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?”_

 

Emma rubbed her eyes when they started to sting; some shampoo must have gotten into them; except, she hadn't even started to wash her hair... and she realized with annoyance that she had tears in her eyes. What the hell? She fucking didn't need this.

 

“Shut up!” she snapped at her empty bathroom, and then suddenly, as if he'd heard her, the singer fell silent, obviously tired of himself. Emma let out a breath of relief. “You weren't that good anyway, buddy,” she murmured. “Let's just hope this was a one-time thing.”

 

Except, it wasn't. The next evening she'd already forgotten about the incident when it happened again: she was lying in the bathtub and just starting to relax – well, sort of – when she heard the guitar again.

 

“I don't believe this,” she groaned when the voice started to sing.

 

“ _Used to be so easy_

_To give my heart away_

_But I found out the hard way_

_There's a price you have to pay.”_

 

“Fuck off, guitar picker,” she cursed through her teeth, but obviously, he had no intention to. Oh yes, she'd paid that price and she'd found it out the hard way, thank you very much. She didn't need a stupid old song to remind her of that. And especially not sung by a man with such a voice that sounded like he meant it.

 

“ _I found out that love_

_Was no friend of mine_

_I should have known_

_Time after time.”_

 

Which was why she would make it better from now on. She was damaged goods, and she couldn't find the energy to fix herself. What for? She'd screw it up anyway. She always had, ever since that first time she'd burned her fingers so badly that they were scarred to the point of being numb. She felt damn tears well up again, and she squeezed her eyes shut to prevent them from falling, cursing the soft, pained voice.

 

“ _So long, it was so long ago_

_But I still got the Blues for you.”_

 

The quiet, acoustic version was even more impressive than the well-known one with the electric guitar, and by the end of the song the tears were streaming down her face and she was murmuring incoherent curse words that mixed with her sobbing. It was annoying, it was painful – but surprisingly enough, she found it cathartic to let it all out. Literally for the first time in years, Emma Swan cried, _really_ cried. Allowed herself to cry and to let go.

 

And then she realized that she wasn't crying so much over a broken relationship – that guy wasn't even worth many tears – but over her own way to fuck it up every single time. When she felt like she was all dried up, and her wine glass was empty and her bath water cold, she wrapped herself up in her fluffy bathrobe and crawled under her padded comforter, exhausted almost to the point of dizziness. And she slept like she hadn't slept in years.

 

From that day on, without even being really aware of it, she made it a habit to head for her hot bubble bath every night at the same time, around 9 am, waiting for her little serenade. When it happened that she got home late from work and didn't make it to have dinner before, she took the plate with her pizza, her sandwich or her tacos with her and ate in the bathtub, but there was no way she was going to miss the mysterious performance; it was a cherished ritual soon. Sometimes the songs were heartwrenchingly sad, at other times some sort of stubborn optimism shone through, but the voice always coated them with a profound melancholy. Emma found herself going with the flow; sometimes she cried when she listened, sometimes she hummed along, but afterward she always felt better. It was like the owner of the voice had a deep understanding for her.

 

“ _I would have given you all of my heart_

_But there's someone who's torn it apart_

_And she's taken just all that I had_

_But if you want I'll try to love again_

_Baby I'll try to love again but I know...”_

 

“You'd better not, buddy,” she murmured and shook her head.

_  
“The first cut is the deepest_

_Baby I know the first cut is the deepest_

_But when it come to being lucky she's cursed_

_When it come to loving me she's the worst.”_

 

So that was probably why his voice, his songs seemed to speak to her – he'd probably been through similar bad experiences, and it was ridiculous, but Emma started to develop a feeling of deep connection to the man that voice belonged to, being more and more attracted and fascinated by that voice. Which was completely crazy and really weird. But it was also okay, because it was just a disembodied voice with no face, like an imaginary friend. She could handle that, she could handle an imaginary friend. Sometimes, she could even talk to him.

 

What she could not handle though, was that, slowly, she started to feel tempted, like _really_ tempted to meet the man behind the voice. More than once, while lying in her bathtub and listening to him, she caught herself trying to imagine what he would look like – if he was short or tall, handsome or plain... she only knew two things: whatever color they were, his eyes had to be beautiful and warm and just _soulful_ , because no one could sing like that and not have expressive eyes. The other thing was, of course, that he had to have beautiful hands... because, _fuck_ , who could make a guitar weep like that...

 

“Damn, snap out of it!” she huffed at herself, “don't even think about it.”

 

She decided _not_ to go and find him, although there was a fair chance of being successful at that; maybe _because_ of that chance. She didn't need this, couldn't handle him becoming _real_... no, he better remained an illusion, because otherwise it would be a delusion anyway. _She_ would be a delusion and inevitably screw up once more. She'd always have the voice and the words, she didn't need more.

 

“ _Oh, once in your life you find someone_

_Who will turn your world around_

_Brings you up when you're feeling down_

 

_Yeah, nothing could change what you mean to me_

_Oh, there's lots that I could say_

_But just hold me now, our love will lead the way.”_

 

She almost got a little angry at that, because the melancholy seemed to gradually fade from his voice; besides it was easy to pretend he was singing to her, and that just wasn't healthy. Especially because he sounded like his singing self-therapy days would be over soon, and then he'd leave her, and she would be back to monotonous, awfully silent nights, and she honestly didn't know if she could handle _that_.

 

“ _Baby, you're all that I want_

_When you're lying here in my arms_

_I'm finding it hard to believe we're in heaven_

 

_And love is all that I need_

_And I found it there in your heart_

_It isn't too hard to see we're in heaven.”_

 

Dear God, she was in love with that voice, and she really, _really_ shouldn't be.

 

And then came the day when she waited for him in vain. Well, she thought as she finally climbed out of her tepid bath water, maybe he's just not in the mood. Or he's got a blister on his thumb. Or a sore throat. But the next evening it was the same: deep, deafening silence.

 

For the first time in weeks, Emma washed her dinner down with two huge glasses of wine and climbed in bed in a numb state, angry and lonely – lonelier than she had felt in weeks. _Great_. Now she wasn't even capable of keeping _imaginary_ friends?

 

The next day she was in an awfully foul mood, and when she got home in the evening she cursed already when the arrived at her apartment building after she'd made it through a small snow storm, stamping her boots and swatting against the fur lapels of her padded leather jacket to get rid of the snow. She was carrying a paper bag from a fast food joint around the corner, and when she took a quick step backwards, she slammed full force into an obstacle.

 

“Whoa!” a male voice exclaimed in surprise, and she felt a firm grip at her elbow, but it was too late; she stumbled, and the greasy paper bag with what was supposed to be a grilled cheese sandwich landed on the floor, spilling its unsavory content.

 

“ _Really?!_ ” she snapped and whirled around, snatching her elbow from the man's grip. “What the hell?!”

 

She found herself glaring into the bluest pair of eyes she'd ever seen which threw her off track for a split second, but the amused twinkle in them was enough to made her see red when all her stored bad mood from the last two days welled up again. “Are you alright there, lass?” the idiot asked, and what stupid kind of accent was that even?

 

“Do I look alright to you?” she snarled at him and motioned to the miserable remnants of her dinner on the floor. “Look what you've done! Can't you watch where you're walking?”

 

He raised an indignant eyebrow. “My apologies, but technically, I was just standing here,” he replied dryly, “whereas _you_ were bumping into me, so maybe _you're_ the one who should have watched your step.”

 

“Yeah, except I don't have eyes in the back of my head now, do I?” her voice was dripping with sarcasm, and with secret delight she watched a little annoyance creep over the man's face and replace the former amusement. The man's _very handsome_ face.

 

“Which is why, normally, we walk forward and not backward,” he retorted a little sharply in his damn snotty accent and pointed to the floor where the brown paper bag had formed a symbiosis with the slobbery sandwich. “Please don't tell me you were planning to eat _that_.” Suddenly, something about him seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she brushed off that thought quickly; surely she would remember if she'd ever met someone like _that_.

 

“That was supposed to be my dinner!” she fired back.

 

He tilted his head, and a strand of dark hair fell into his forehead where it met the raised eyebrow. Emma's fingers itched to slap him. “Now if you consider this actual food, you don't need my apologies. You need condolences. Now, if you'll excuse me...” He had the nerve to turn around and walk towards the elevators with a noticeable amount of annoying swagger, leaving Emma to stare at his back with fury in her eyes. Only now she noticed that he was dressed in black from the popped-up collar of his thigh-long leather trench to his slightly pointed boots. Tall, dark and handsome, and obviously very aware of it. What an arrogant...

 

“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath, not caring if he heard her, while she picked up the offensive paper bag and threw it into the garbage can in the hallway. But obviously he _had_ heard her, because he repaid her insult by humming to himself:

 

“ _I got a woman, mean as she can be...”_

 

At first she thought she'd heard wrong. Because it couldn't be. Except, it _was_. The vague familiarity she'd felt moments before had become certainty when she'd heard his slightly husky voice hum those few tunes. She would have recognized that voice in a million by now. She stared at the man in disbelief as he was standing in front of the elevator, waiting for the doors to open, the fingers of his right hand smoothly thrumming a secret rhythm on his thigh. _Beautiful hands._

 

Before she could think twice about it, she dashed through the hall. “Hey, wait!”

 

Slowly, he turned around to her, still a slight annoyance on his face. “Lass, I already apologized for any inconvenience,” he told her almost impatiently. “Now...”

 

“You're the voice!” Emma interrupted and pointed her finger at him, almost breathless in her... what was it? Excitement? Nervousness?

 

He raised his eyebrow again. “Excuse me?”

 

“The voice!” she repeated. “There's someone singing and playing the guitar, I can hear it every evening, and that's _you_ , isn't it?” Had her voice just sounded _eager_?

 

The stranger rolled his eyes. “Wonderful,” he huffed. “Well, I shall apologize for that, too, then.”

 

“No, no, you don't have to!” she cut him off hastily, and he raised a questioning eyebrow again. She sighed. “I think I have to explain.”

 

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Explain what?” The elevator doors opened with a soft pling, but he didn't even look, and after a few moments they closed again.

 

“I moved in here not long ago, after a really nasty breakup,” she told him bluntly. “And when I hear you sing... it made me feel better, every day.” _Oh God_ , had she just said that to a complete stranger? She felt a blush rise to her cheeks. The stupidest thing was, suddenly all of her bad mood seemed to have fallen from her.

 

The fine skin around his eyes crinkled – beautiful, warm eyes, as she now noticed; just like she had imagined. “Well, then I suppose I have to apologize for not singing the last two nights?” he offered in an amused voice and scratched behind his ear. “I had to work late shifts.”

 

Emma swayed a little back and forth on her feet; always a sure sign of her nervousness. “I think that's what got me into a bad mood,” she admitted sheepishly.

 

He smirked, but in a totally disarming way. “Did you miss me?”

 

She couldn't help but laugh and stretched out her hand spontaneously. “Emma Swan. I'm sorry, we started out wrong.”

 

“Swan,” he echoed slowly, and she liked the sound of her name pronounced by him. “Interesting name.” He took her hand in a warm, firm grip and shook it. “That's okay, Swan. I'm damaged goods myself. Killian Jones.”

 

She smiled a little awkwardly and averted her eyes, suddenly a little embarrassed. What would he think of her... or would he hit on her? Had she made a mistake? She didn't even know what had pushed her to let her guard down and just go with the flow like that – and what to do with it now; usually, she wasn't the spontaneous type at all.

 

“Was that really your dinner?” his voice woke her from her thoughts, and she focused on his face again. Only now she noticed that a light auburn scruff dusted his cheeks and chin. _Really handsome._

 

“Oh,” she waved him off and pressed the button for the elevator again, “you were right, that's not even real food. I just wasn't in the mood to make it to the next deli, with that snow outside...”

 

“I feel bad now,” he said sheepishly and scratched behind his ear again; obviously a gesture of embarrassment. “Can I get you something?” The door ping-ed open again, and they both got inside. Emma pressed the 8 and her new acquaintance the 9.

 

“No, it's fine, really,” she replied. “I'm not even hungry. I'll just leave it at a glass of wine and a few crackers.”

 

He cocked an eyebrow. “And maybe a serenade.” His voice had a definitely teasing undertone now.

 

Emma pressed her lips together in a flustered smile and stole a glance at his lips. “I wouldn't say no to that,” she replied and almost regretted when the elevator doors opened again and she had to get out. “My floor,” she said sheepishly and nodded before she stepped out. “I see you around, Killian Jones.”

 

He tilted his head in an adorable, somehow old-fashioned, greeting way, almost like a bow. “You will, Swan.”

 

When the elevator doors closed again and she was left alone on her floor, Emma exhaled a breath she didn't know she'd held; she still couldn't believe what just had happened during the last five minutes... it still felt surreal. This wasn't an imaginary friend anymore; the voice had a face and a name now. _Killian Jones._

 

Not long after she'd changed into her comfy sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, she heard the guitar being picked and smiled to herself. There was her serenade. How different it would be now, knowing that he knew she was listening – and that he'd maybe pay extra attention now to the songs he'd choose. She frowned at the chords; they were only vaguely familiar, until she recognized them and burst out in laughter. It was his acoustic version of _Sympathy For The Devil._

 

“Really?” she chuckled, and he started to sing, almost in a mocking tone.

 

“ _Please allow me to introduce myself_

_I'm a man of wealth and taste_

_I've been around for a long, long year_

_Stole many a man's soul and faith.”_

 

Emma raised her wine glass and toasted to the empty room. “Well, hello to you, too.”

 

“ _Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name_

_But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game.”_

 

She smiled and murmured to herself: “I can't wait to find out, Killian Jones.”

 

From then on, they became friendly neighbors and ran into each other on a regular basis almost every day in the hall; more or less by accident at first, then Emma started to look out for him, and magically he got used to appear when she was carrying home her groceries or other purchases. Then it was not so accidental any more. Sometimes, he'd bring her coffee in the morning or leave a bag with fresh cinnamon rolls at her door because he knew she was always on a hurry. In the evening, sometimes it was a grilled cheese sandwich which he knew now she liked, and he never forgot the onion rings. Emma got so used to seeing him every day that it was a bad day when she didn't. And from what it looked like, he seemed to feel the same. Soon, her imaginary friend had become a real one, and for the first time in forever, she had the feeling she wasn't alone anymore. They laughed together about random stuff, they ranted with each other about their respective problems and nuisances at work, and sometimes they'd share a quick beer at Emma's kitchen counter or his, but never more. There was a fine line between having an after-work beer or Killian randomly inviting her over to finish lasagna leftovers and going out for drinks or dinner as in _date_ , and that line was never crossed.

 

Killian kept up the singing for most days – even though he never sang in front of her – , but also that was different now, because he knew she was listening, and he chose the songs deliberately. Emma was aware of that; mostly, to her surprise, he seemed to guess the right song to sing to suit her mood.

 

“ _Who we are all comes down to what we know_

_Who we become, surely time will tell us when to run_

_Or walk in the light, the warmth just feels so right_

_The question burns, never know which way to turn.”_

 

She'd never heard that song, but the words spoke to her, again. Like if he knew. In fact, time had always told Emma Swan when to run, and she hadn't had to be told twice, although she'd never really known which way to turn. Which was why she'd felt like trapped in a vicious circle for most of her life.

 

“ _Might have known you'd be my savior_

_When I'd fallen out of favor_

_Might have known you'd be my savior_

_You saved this perfect stranger.”_

 

Except, there wasn't such a thing as a mysterious savior appearing from nowhere; everyone had to find salvation in themselves... but then, Emma Swan didn't need saving, right? She was perfectly fine with her life.

 

After a few weeks though, there was no melancholy left in Killian's voice, and gradually the songs became a little more romantic – those were beautiful songs that were just like written for his voice, but it was also somehow frightening, because she knew that _he_ knew she was listening, so basically the songs were for her, and what the fuck did _that_ even mean? He never made a move to approach her in another way than like a friend, and she was glad about that, because she didn't feel alone anymore, but still felt safe with him. Oh, Emma wasn't stupid – she didn't even bother to deny that she'd found him attractive from day one... pretty much everything about him was gorgeous, from his smile over his eyes to his constantly fidgeting musician's hands, not to mention his voice and the way he moved. And _God_ , he always smelled so good. She would have been a liar if she'd denied that she'd asked herself quite a few times how it would feel to comb her fingers through his always slightly messy hair or run them along his scruffy jaw and down his long neck. Or to kiss his full lips that he kept constantly moistening with his expressive tongue, a highly distracting habit of his. She might even have had the random, embarrassingly vivid dream about him running his hands down her spine, his fingers playing a lazy, sensual rhythm on her bare skin... she was human, after all.

 

But of course she'd never ever do anything to make those dreams become real, to succumb to the temptation that was Killian Jones. And he, always a gentleman, never did anything to allude that he was after more than just a comfortable friendship... in fact, he was so much of a gentleman that sometimes Emma even asked herself if something was wrong with her, because he never even tried hitting on her. Not the slightest hint. If it wasn't for the songs, that is.

 

“ _Settle down with me_

_Cover me up_

_Cuddle me in_

_Lie down with me_

_Hold me in your arms.”_

 

The nature of his game was indeed puzzling her... but was it even a game? Surely it didn't mean anything. But what if it did?

 

“ _Kiss me like you wanna be loved_

_Wanna be loved, wanna be loved_

_This feels like I've fallen in love_

_Fallen in love, fallen in love.”_

 

More dreams ensued... and they all involved kissing. But then, by day, he behaved completely normal again and did nothing to make her uncomfortable, which was really great, but sometimes, sometimes she wished he would just...

 

Then, one evening, he helped her carry her groceries to her apartment when he found her in the hallway struggling with her paper bags – like he'd done many times before – , and they shared a quick beer and the latest gossip in her kitchen. When he left her apartment and they said their good night, it came almost naturally to her to lean in, stand on her tiptoes and brush a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips. His response was delayed, but there it was – soft but firm and warm, oh, _so_ warm. Emma had closed her eyes briefly, but when she reopened them and saw the spark of happiness that was lighting up his gorgeous eyes, she was nothing less than terrified and regretted her move immediately. This was wrong, so wrong. But why – why did it feel so _right_ then?

 

She stood there frozen in shock and blinked at him nervously, terrified that he might possibly reach out for her to pull her in his arms and kiss her again, but he didn't make such a move. Her stupid relief was so huge that she even smiled. _Just a brief peck between friends,_ she told herself, _and tomorrow we can forget it and pretend it never happened._ When he smiled back and just said _good night_ before walking away, she was even more relieved. Thank God, he obviously didn't read anything else into that stupid move of hers.

 

Except that, obviously, he did. Only minutes later, she heard him caress his guitar.

 

“ _It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart_

_Without saying a word you can light up the dark_

_Try as I may I can never explain_

_What I hear when you don't say a thing.”_

 

Emma wanted to pull a blanket over her head and not come out again for the next three hundred years. _Oh please, no. What have I done?_ She prayed that she hadn't ruined this friendship that had basically become the anchor in her life. She prayed that her stupidity wouldn't cause her to lose him. She couldn't stand the thought.

 

“ _The smile on your face let's me know that you need me_

_There's a truth in your eyes saying you'll never leave me_

_The touch of your hand says you'll catch me wherever I fall_

_You say it best, when you say nothing at all...”_

 

His voice was, as usual, a caress for her soul. _And what if.._. Emma groaned. _Don't even think about it._ No, this wasn't possible, not even an option. She was terrified. She knew she couldn't do this. Giving it – whatever it was – a try, would inevitably end with her screwing it up. She _knew_ she would screw it up, and she would to hurt him, and in the end she would lose him, and she simply couldn't do this. When she finally fell asleep late at night, her cheeks were wet with tears for the first time in months.

 

The next day she hoped she could avoid him, at least for a bit, but of course he was there in the hallway when she tried to sneak out of the building. _Okay, fine,_ she thought, _then better get it over with, before he sets his hopes too high. Better do it quickly, like ripping off a band aid._ Before he could say anything to her, she walked up to him and said:

 

“Killian, the song you played last night...”

 

It hurt her almost physically to see how his face lit up. “Did you like it?” he asked, all blue sapphire smiles.

 

“It was beautiful, Killian,” she replied and drew a deep breath. “But it's not... _I'm_ not...” And there it was... the fading of his smile. She wanted to cry. “Look,” she went on, averting her gaze, because she just couldn't look him in the eyes, “I'm not what you...” _what you need_ , she wanted to say, but he understood. He also understood what it meant: she was afraid. Terrified. She wasn't ready; maybe she never would be. Maybe her walls, those walls he'd thought had been crumbling over the last weeks, were too high.

 

“It's okay, Swan,” he brushed her off lightly, “it was just a song, nothing more.” He cleared his throat. “Probably you won't hear me for the next two nights.”

 

Her eyes flew up to his again. “What? Why?”

 

He shrugged. “It's my turn to take the night shifts,” he told her and added nonchalantly: “I'll put a bag with croissants in front of your door when I come home in the morning.”

 

And with that, he turned around and walked away, and she stood there, staring after him in disbelief. Oh, she'd seen the hurt in his eyes although he'd quickly tried to mask it... and she hated herself for being such a coward. She always ruined everything – not only wasn't she relationship material, obviously she wasn't even friendship material. Somehow, she made it through the next two nights without hearing him, although she was miserable, and due to his working shifts she didn't see him either.

 

A few days later she ran into him in the hallway again, and despite what had happened, Emma was so relieved and happy to see him that she walked up to him eagerly and with a smile, somehow almost having forgotten what had happened. Killian smiled back, sure, but it was a robotic smile, not the sapphire rays of sunshine she was used to. Her heart sank. And then he told her, almost passing by and in a quite detached voice, that he was thinking of moving out.

 

Emma felt like punched in the face; the blood was rushing in her ears, and she only half understood his lame explanation – he had a job offer at the other end of the town, and they offered a nice apartment too, just around the corner – because all she could think was _I'm losing him_. She wanted to kick and scream in his face that he couldn't just leave her, but of course she did nothing of the sort. Instead, she just put on her mask automatically and forced a smile onto her face and nodded. “Oh, sure, that sounds great.”

 

Killian didn't know what he'd expected; had he been stupid to hope for some reaction from her, for the slightest sign that she didn't want him to leave? Had he been so wrong about her, didn't she care at all? He suspected she did care, but alas, her fear of flying was bigger than her longing to soar. A deep, leaden feeling of defeat pulled heavily at his heart as he looked into her eyes and nodded. “Aye, life does regale you with opportunities sometimes,” he said, and when she didn't reply, he just turned around and walked towards the elevator without waiting for her.

 

Emma felt numb and devastated when she closed her door behind her. She had hoped they could forget what had happened between them, that errant kiss – or maybe not entirely forget it; maybe they could have just stored it away until she'd know what to do with it... God, whom was she kidding? She was a coward. The ugly truth was, Emma Swan had been rejected and left so often in her life that she was tired of trying. It was so much more comfortable and safe to let no one get close to her. A friendship was fine, but anything beyond that... why had she been so stupid and crossed that line?

 

She almost dropped her glass when she heard his guitar playing a few soft chords – she'd expected everything, but not him to sing tonight. She buried her face in her hands, sure she wouldn't be able to hear his voice tonight.

 

“ _Say something, I'm giving up on you._

_I'll be the one, if you want me to._

_Anywhere, I would've followed you._

_Say something, I'm giving up on you.”_

 

“Yeah right,” Emma murmured tonelessly, “you'd better, if you know what's good for you.”

 

_"And I am feeling so small._

_It was over my head_

_I know nothing at all._

_And I will stumble and fall._

_I'm still learning to love_

_Just starting to crawl.”_

 

“Well, I'm not,” she huffed angrily and finished the rest of her wine in one big gulp, trying her best to force back the tears that threatened to flow. What broke her heart the most were not the melody or the sad words – it was Killian's voice. It sounded more than fragile tonight; it sounded broken.

 

“ _Say something, I'm giving up on you._

_I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you._

_Anywhere, I would've followed you._

_Say something, I'm giving up on you._

 

_And I will swallow my pride._

_You're the one that I love_

_And I'm saying goodbye.”_

 

There was no use in trying, and so she gave up – she gave up faking that she didn't care or that she was angry; she cried again, more than she'd ever cried before. She cried a river until she fell into a restless slumber on her couch. It was a sleepless night – she dozed off, just to wake up five minutes later and tossing and turning for the next hour. _And I'm saying goodbye._ Even if she mustered the superhuman amount of courage it would take to knock at his door and ask him to stay, it was too late. He'd caught a revealing look on her brokenness, on her incapability to get anything right – he would turn her down. He'd be crazy not to.

 

At 5 am she got up from her uncomfortable position and stumbled into the bathroom, trying to shake off the last remnants of the night with a cold shower; but some shades of darkness you just couldn't wash away that easily. You needed light, only light to make them fade. Emma looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, and she saw the mere shadow of a woman, barely alive. She didn't even remember how it felt like to be home, safe – _happy_. Except, that wasn't true.

 

She looked into her eyes, and suddenly she recognized the truth.

 

Yes, there was a chance he'd say _no_.

 

Yes, there was a chance he'd say _yes_ , and she'd still screw it up. If any of that happened, she'd have to deal with it, and she would, somehow.

 

But _no_ , there was not a chance she could let him walk out of her life without even trying, because she knew _that_ would leave a hole in her heart and her soul that would take a lifetime to heal and maybe never would.

 

It was 6 am when she knocked at his door. Killian opened, of course still in his pajama pants and an old threadbare t-shirt, hair tousled, dark shadows under his eyes, like he hadn't slept much either; still, he was drop-dead gorgeous, and her heart clenched almost painfully in her chest. He blinked at her in confusion, and she knew she needed to get on with it before her courage would leave her.

 

She drew a deep breath. “Don't.”

 

He frowned. “Don't what?” His voice was still thick with sleep.

 

“Don't go,” she blurted out breathlessly.

 

Suddenly, he seemed to be awake. He tilted his head. “What are you saying, Swan?”

 

Emma didn't know what to do with her hands and thrust them in the back pockets of her jeans. “Look, I'm really, really bad at this, but...” – she chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, not really knowing how to say it, then she decided to tell it as it was: “I don't wanna lose you.”

 

He cocked an eyebrow and pierced her with his stare. “But you don't want to have me either,” he replied matter-of-factly.

 

She shook her head vigorously. “It's not that,” she objected. “I really... _really_...” She stumbled over her own words, not used to spilling out her heart like that, and it was a terrifying feeling. She ran her hands through her hair. “Look, maybe _you_ shouldn't want to have _me_ , I don't know. You've been hurt too, and I – I'm a mess. I ruin things. You'd probably be better off without me.” Killian watched her quietly, arms folded, while she rambled and struggled with the right words. She couldn't handle his intense, unfaltering gaze and averted her eyes, feeling the dreadful certainty creep up her spine that she was failing miserably. She shrugged. “I don't know if I can change, but...” Then she hiked her eyes up again, locked them with his, because she needed him to see, to understand that she was being serious. “Please, don't go,” she finished firmly, offering him all she had, silently praying it was enough.

 

Tears were shining in her eyes now, and her hands were clenched to fists again in the pockets of her jeans. She was as tense as a bow string just about to snap, but she didn't look away. He scrutinized her closely for a long time, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Well, to be honest,” he finally said, “the apartment they offer isn't _that_ good.”

 

She allowed a little hope to creep into her voice. “It's not?”

 

He tilted his head. “The acoustics suck.” Suddenly, the fine skin around his eyes started to crease.

 

Emma smiled through her tears. “That's too bad.”

 

He tilted his head in a shrug. “Isn't it just.” Killian smiled back; he wanted nothing more than to pull her in his arms and kiss the pain away, but no – she'd already come that far, and she was going to have to take that step. He knew that she needed to carefully set one foot in front of the other. He scratched behind his ear. “Look, I would ask you our for dinner, but unfortunately I've already agreed to work the late shift... I won't be home before ten tonight.”

 

She searched his gaze. “But you will be home.”

 

Her look warmed his heart, and he nodded with shining eyes. “Yes, I will be home.”

 

She pressed her lips together in a shy smile. “Good.” Then she turned around and walked away, elated now, and his eyes followed her all the way to the elevator; she felt them like a caress in her back. Emma slept almost all day long, due to the fact that she really hadn't gotten much rest during the last few days. When she woke up in the late afternoon, she went out to buy some groceries and made herself a salad for dinner, not even really hungry. The fluttering butterflies took up way too much room in her stomach anyway. She took a late bath that night, waiting for Killian's voice – part of her still a little afraid that she'd pushed him too far, but there he was, and he picked the guitar with utter devotion, his husky voice full of warmth cocooning her.

 

“ _Now but I've tried to_

_Talk to you and make you understand_

_All you have to do_

_Is close your eyes and just reach out your hands_

_And touch me.”_

 

Emma smiled to herself and looked at her hands, suddenly longing to do exactly what the words told her.

 

“ _Hold me close, don't ever let me go_

_More than words_

_Is all I ever needed you to show_

_Then you wouldn't have to say_

_That you love me_

_'Cause I'd already know.”_

 

She was still a little scared, but so happy that it almost hurt, and before she even realized what she was doing, she found herself at his door again, not even remembering how she'd got there, but this time she didn't knock, she pounded at it. When Killian opened and smiled that smile at her, she flung herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck so that he stumbled back inside, and she kissed him like there was no tomorrow... except she knew now there _was_ a tomorrow, and also a day after tomorrow and another one after that.

 

Much, much later that night, when she was happily curled up in his bed, he disentangled his limbs from hers and reached for his guitar – it looked old and battered, but the sound was perfect: clear and warm and smooth; and for the first time of many times, he sang directly to her.

 

“ _This world is getting colder. Strangers passing by_

_No one offers you a shoulder. No one looks you in the eye_

_But I've been looking at you for a long, long time_

_Just trying to break through, trying to make you mine_

_Everybody wants a flame, they don't want to get burnt_

_Well today is our turn._

 

_Days like these lead to_

_Nights like this leads to_

_Love like ours_

_You light the spark in my bonfire heart_

 

_People like us_

_We don't need that much_

_Just someone that starts_

_Starts the spark in our bonfire hearts.”_

* * *

 

_**Songs:** _

 

_I Don't Wanna Talk About It (Rod Stewart)_

_Still Got The Blues (Gary Moore)_

_The First Cut is The Deepest (Rod Stewart)_

_Heaven (Bryan Adams)_

_Mean Woman Blues (Elvis Presley)_

_Sympathy For The Devil (The Rolling Stones)_

_Perfect Stranger (The Enemies)_

_Kiss Me (Edward Sheeran)_

_When You Say Nothing At All (Ronan Keating)_

_Say Something (A Great Big World)_

_More Than Words (Extreme)_

_Bonfire Heart (James Blunt)_

 


End file.
